The Borrowers of Baker Street
by Banji
Summary: When John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, he assumed he'd be living there by himself. He did not expect to find the place already inhabited, especially by tiny little people living in the walls.
1. Chapter 1

Because the Secret World of Moriarty is a joke best saved for a different day. This is going to be quite a bit different from my last story, but it feels good to be writing again. **  
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Not exactly sure where we're going with this story, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. First chapter is always short, sorry.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1 - In which John finds there are tiny people living in his walls.<strong>

John Watson is and always has been a sane man. At least, he considers himself to be.

After getting wounded during his service in Afghanistan and moving to London in hopes of finding a better, less traumatic life, he one day happened upon an ad in the paper. A Mrs. Hudson was looking for suitable persons to live in the flat she rents out. Upon meeting her, John found she was a kind and sweet old woman and she even offered a lower price since it would be just him on his own. The flat wasn't much with its worn out floors and outdated wallpaper, but it came with a few pieces of furniture and had quite a bit of room. So John thanked her and had moved in within the week.

At first everything was nice and quiet, but then he began to notice things. He tried to put the feelings of unease out of mind, attributing them to the fact that he was in a new atmosphere and just needed to get used to it. But soon he started to notice them more and more. Small noises in the middles of the night, things in the kitchen moved ever so slightly when he wasn't looking, muted voices during the middle of the day. _Perhaps it's just the people next door,_ he assured himself. _Or rats. _

Nevertheless, the strange sounds and occurrences continued over the next few weeks. John began to feel slightly more paranoid as the days went on, wondering if the reason the flat was so cheap was because it was haunted by the previous owner or something like that. Still, he considered himself perfectly normal and in no way a nutter.

So of course when he got up one night to fetch a glass of water and found a tiny person about the size of a teaspoon standing on his countertop glaring quite furiously at him, he handled the situation quite logically.

Or he would have if he hadn't promptly passed out on the kitchen floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Aw yeah, another chapter done today~ I'm surprised by how fast I'm writing this all. Now I have a quick question: Would you like me to update as I write or write a few at a time and post them regularly? I don't mind doing either.

Also I apologize for the shameless deduction scene from ASiP, but I had to establish that, inches tall or not, Sherlock is still a genius and a showoff. Also I'll point out that he kind of sucks at being a Borrower. You'll understand what that means later.

No beta this time around. Enjoy~

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><p><strong>Chapter 2 - In which John finds that tiny people living in his walls make interesting conversations.<strong>

John opens his eyes with a groan. He slowly lifts his head up and finds a large bump forming from where he hit the floor. He touches it tenderly as he sits up and surveys his surroundings. The person, if there really had been one standing on his counter, was gone now. He was alone.

"Alright, John," he mutters to himself. "You've just had yourself a bit of a start, that's all."

He picks himself up off the floor and glances around once more.

"It's a new place and you're still getting used to it. That's why you thought you saw a tiny little man in your kitchen." He frowns but gives a small nod and walks to the sink. "Perfectly logical."

"It's rude to pass out when you meet someone for the first time, you know."

John jumps so high he nearly hits his head on the lamp overhanging the table. "W-Who said that?" he whirls around, trying to locate the source of the small yet deep voice. "And what the bloody hell are you doing in my flat?"

"I could ask you the same questions, since technically I was here first." John backs up against the sink for support and scans the room carefully, searching for any sign of movement. For someone that small, he couldn't have gone very far. John wonders how long he was unconscious.

"Alright then, I'm… I'm sorry I passed out. You just… frightened me." He straightens up a bit, still unable to see whoever he is talking to. "I mean, I wasn't expecting to see a lit— to see anyone else in my kitchen." He peeks around the dishes next to the sink. Not there.

"That's because you weren't supposed to see me at all. It's against the rules."

His head snaps forward, the voice clearly coming from directly in front of him. John still can't find him though. "Rules? What rules?"

"The rules of being a Borrower."

"Being a wha— look, can you just come out where I can see you? I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to make sure I haven't gone mad."

A pause of silent contemplation, then, "Very well, I guess I've already been compromised as it is." Like removing camouflage the tiny man suddenly appears on the table in front of John. _He had been there the whole time then,_ John realizes, _standing perfectly still_. Maybe it would have been better if he had just gone mad.

With his eyes better adjusted to the light John can see things more clearly. The man is indeed about the height of a teaspoon or a cup, with very messy black hair and a thin, wiry frame. Even from a distance John can see tiny cold blue eyes giving him a piercing stare. The man wears a neat little black suit and what could be tiny leather shoes, though they appeared to be quite worn out. He has a small pack on his back and carries what looked to be one of those little plastic swords used for drinks. John would have laughed if he hadn't realized that the man fully intended it to be used as an actual weapon.

He does however manage a weak chuckle, which causes the man to give him another glare. He brandishes the plastic weapon menacingly. "Sorry," John offers.

The two remain in silence, quietly studying one another, each waiting for the other to respond. John feels himself relax a bit once he realizes the little man is probably just as intrigued as he is; otherwise wouldn't he have run away after being seen?

Small blue eyes continues to stare and the sword remains unwavering as the man watches John closely, determined not to fold first. But at last his curiosity gets the better of him and he quietly remarks, "You hit your head quite hard when you fell. It was loud enough to wake up the landlady." He shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to do next. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just a nasty bump." John lightly probes the tender area as if to assure his companion. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson sleeps like a log. She usually leaves the telly on."

Recognition fails to meet the small man's eyes. "Who is Mrs. Hudson?"

"The… landlady? Downstairs?"

"Oh. Her." He gives an understanding nod. "Yes, she sleeps quite heavily. Makes it easier to get into her flat."

John gives another chuckle. _I'm having a conversation with a miniature man in my kitchen and we're chatting like old friends. Harry would put me in the loony bin if she heard about this._

"By the way, you said something earlier about that. What did you mean you were here first?"

The man, finding John no longer a threat, sighs and stabs his tiny plastic scabbard into the table. He sits down on the edge. "Obviously I mean I was here first. I live here – have lived here for quite some time now. You've only just moved in a few weeks ago, having recently returned from military service in either Afghanistan or Iraq."

John's mouth flaps open and closed like a fish gasping for air. "How did you know— hang on, have you been going through my things? Have you been spying on me?"

The man waves a small hand. "Nonsense. I don't need to rummage through your belongings to know that much about you, such as your recent recovery from a bullet wound or your brother's drinking problem." He smiles deviously at John's amazement. "I merely observe."

He crosses his arms thoughtfully. "Although yes, I have been going through your things if you care to get technical about it. But I assure you that is not how I knew about your previous career."

"Then how did you know?"

"I told you: I observe." He points a tiny finger at John's shoulder. "For instance, when you first moved in you had a limp and occasionally used a walking cane. I can only guess that you were wounded in action, but you've started to use the cane less and less, so the injury is not in your leg. For instance, you didn't need it earlier when you entered the kitchen, and you're not favoring the leg now. The pain there is simply psychosomatic." John blinks, the surprised look on his face confirmation of all the man is saying. This is met with a smirk. "That… and I saw the scar on your shoulder once while you were changing your clothes."

John's face turns an unholy shade of pink at that revelation. The little man furrows his brow but continues with his deduction.

"I knew you were a recent soldier by the tan lines on your wrists, your haircut and the way you hold yourself, not to mention your I.D. You really should keep your wallet somewhere other than in the pocket of the pants you've just got done wearing." Another self-satisfied smirk and John's face goes even darker. "And finally your brother and his drinking problem. Your phone is not new, but it is a nice phone. You moved in here because of the low price and you didn't bring many belongings with you, so you wouldn't waste your money on an expensive phone. It is a gift, then. The inscription on the back reads 'Harry Watson, from Clara XXX.' Harry is a relative, could be a cousin but most likely a brother. Clara is his recently divorced wife, most likely because she couldn't stand the drinking. He left her, as evident by the fact that he gave you his phone; if she had left him he would have kept it out of sentiment. He wanted you to keep in touch then, in case you needed him." He gave a small nod, pleased with his observations.

John continues to stare incredulously at the small being that knew so much about him."And the drinking? How could you have possibly known about that?"

The man clicks his tongue. "Ah, yes, the drinking. Knew I had missed something. Well on the nights that you forget to plug in your phone to charge, it is impossible to miss the large scratches surrounding the area of the charging plug. A sober person wouldn't miss the connection from phone to charger that many times, a drunken person stumbling about and unable to see straight would."

John looks at the smug little man with amazement. "That… was incredible." The man cocks his head and gives him a curious look.

"You really think so?"

John nods. "Yes, that was… that was fantastic. Well, the part about watching me change was a bit unnerving, but the rest. You learned all that about me in a month?"

His tiny smile grew bigger. "Oh no – I learned all that in the first day."

"Unbelievable."

The man smiles, climbs to his feet and retrieves his sword. "Well this has been fun but I was actually doing something before you came in and interrupted me. It was truly a pleasure-"

"John Watson," John finishes for him. "Though you probably already knew that from spying on me and looking through my wallet. It's, uh… nice to meet you." He quickly shoves his right hand forward, nearly knocking the small man clear off the table. He sniffs but slowly reaches out, grasps John's ring finger in his hand and gives two firm shakes.

"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance, John Watson."

With that, Sherlock turns around and dashes off to the other end of the table, disappearing over the corner edge. John doesn't see where he runs off to, but he reminds himself to searches for mouse holes or something like that tomorrow.

"Hey, I've still got questions for you! You said you were a Borrower or something. What exactly is a Borrower?"

A small voice calls out, "We _borrow, _obviously. What else would a _Borrower_ do?"

"Yes, but—can we at least talk more in the morning perhaps?"

John waits for an answer. There isn't one.

"…Harry is short for 'Harriett', actually."

A string of what was probably swearing and the word "sister!" echoes dimly from the living room. John smiles faintly. Rubbing the back of his head tenderly, he heads back down the hallway and climbs into bed.

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><p>John awakes the next morning from what was possibly the most extraordinary dream he has had in a very long time. He remembers going to the kitchen and finding a small man on his counter, with whom he then has an entire conversation. The man said he was called a Borrower or something, and his name was Sherlock Holmes. <em>Sherlock Holmes,<em> John muses to himself, stretching out under the sheets. _Such a funny name._

He rolls over to face the other wall when something on the bedside table catches his eye. A small piece of paper, the size of a stamp, folded neatly next to his watch. He slowly reaches out and plucks it from the table, carefully unfolding the tiny scrap. The writing within was far too small for any normal person to have made legible.

_John-_

_I rather enjoyed our conversation last night. I've never actually talked to a human before as we're not really supposed to. It was quite invigorating. Perhaps we could talk some more after all?_

_-SH_

John smirks. He knew Sherlock was just as curious as he was. For someone so small, he certainly knew how to hold himself up high. With that, he rises from the bed and begins his daily routine, eager for the chance to get to know his new "little" friend better.

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><p>Reviewsquestions are welcome~


	3. Chapter 3

For the time being, expect a chapter _at least _every other day. Now that I'm trying to finish up Repossession, I've got two different tracks of though I have to hang on to. This story may not end up having much of an exciting plot, but I do hope to have some crime solving and interactions with different characters in here at some point. SniperKing has given me some great ideas concerning character placement X3

Also I apologize for any errors in these chapters, I don't have a beta for this story as I've just decided to wing it. Enjoy~

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><p><strong>Chapter 3 - In which John finally has someone to talk to.<strong>

John manages to catch Mrs. Hudson on his way out the door.

"Mrs. Hudson, could I have a word with you right quick?"

"Oh, good morning, John!" The elder woman greets him happily. "How've you been? Everything alright upstairs?"

John nods. "Oh yeah, yeah. No, it's great, the flat is great. I just… had a strange question I wanted to ask you, and I hope you won't find me crazy for asking it."

Her eyebrows furrow slightly. "What is it, dear?"

He clears his throat nervously, unsure of how to properly phrase his next words. "Um… well, have you- do you know about the, uh, the tiny person living in the walls?" He half expects her to laugh at him or write him off as crazy.

Instead she blinks slowly and replies, "Of course."

"Wait, really?" Now it's John's turn to look confused.

"Yes, I've seen him about. I thought I was the only one who could." She laughs gently. "He's such a small little fellow, like a fairy but without wings."

John finds himself highly relieved. Either they both knew of the same person, or they were both having the same delusion. Either way, he and Mrs. Hudson were on the same page.

"Have you ever talked to him, then?"

"Oh goodness, no." She shakes her head, giving him a look. "I just hear him mucking about in my kitchen sometimes. No, I only saw him once in the middle of the night. That's when they prefer to come out of hiding, you know."

"What was he doing when you saw him?"

"He was getting into the sugar of all things. Made a proper mess of it everywhere, he did. He is quite a clumsy little fellow." She leans in closer as if to tell a secret. "I actually leave things out to wear he can get to them easier." Mrs. Hudson gives John a mischievous smile and chuckles, pleased with her own cleverness.

He thanks her for her time and heads out the front door.

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><p>John returns home from work later that evening with fresh groceries. He puts on a kettle of tea and puts everything away, then goes to the living room to begin searching. It takes him only 10 minutes of crawling around on all fours to find it: a small crevice near the bookshelves, only slightly bigger than the average mouse hole. John hesitates before gently knocking on the wooden paneling.<p>

"Um, hello? Sherlock?"

He listens. Nothing at first, then the very soft sound of tiny footsteps. Sherlock pokes his head out of the hole.

"Back already?"

John chuckles. "Yes, just out getting some groceries. I was just wondering if you'd like to come out and talk some more - maybe share a cup of tea with me?"

Sherlock studies him for a moment before disappearing back into his hole. John frowns, worrying that perhaps his request was too bold. But then the small man reappears with his pack and the tiniest teacup John has ever seen. It looked to be the kind that came from a dollhouse or miniature set.

"I hope you have an eye dropper on hand."

After the tea has been carefully served – and John has waited for Sherlock to slowly climb up on the coffee table – the two sit in silence, each observing the other. Sherlock fidgets with his cup before quietly admitting, "I'm going against everything I've been taught right now."

John takes a sip before replying. "What do you mean? Having tea with me?"

He nods, staring at nothing in particular. "From day one Borrowers are taught that humans are terrible creatures and that we must never interact with them. We especially shouldn't be seen by them." He looks up at John. "Humans react to us in many ways, usually somewhere between fear and rage. They either scream and run away or try to step on us like roaches. We are brought up with a natural fear of them; to run for cover should they come near us. We don't talk to them and we certainly don't have tea with them."

John frowns. "So what makes you act so differently? You seem to have a lot of courage for someone so— someone your size." He leans forward ever so slightly, thoroughly intrigued. "Why didn't you run from me last night? What made you stay?"

Sherlock gives him a sad smile. "I honestly don't know." He took a thoughtful sip of his tea. "There was something different about you, I suppose. I'd never seen someone faint at that sight of me before. It made you seem… less threatening."

John isn't sure if he should take that as a compliment or an insult, so he simply smiles. "So I know you've told me, but what exactly is a 'Borrower'? Obviously you borrow things, but I've never even heard of you before."

"Of course you have, you just don't realize it. Whenever you hear talk of fairies, or of sprites, imps, elves, or leprechauns, they always refer to us. Each culture has a different name for us, but they all mean the same thing."

"But all of those creatures, I would think they'd live out in the country, away from civilization. What are you doing here in London by yourself?"

Sherlock sighs. "I suppose I'm what you would call a rebel. I became tired of my home life and ran away as soon as I was old enough to take care of myself. Mycroft still managed to track me down after a while though." He glares at the window.

"Who's Mycroft?"

The smaller man snaps his attention back to John. "Mycroft is an annoying and ignorant sod who doesn't know when he isn't wanted!"

John decides not to push the matter any further. "So how did you end up in London then?"

"You are asking a lot of questions, John. I believe it is my turn to ask."

He smiles apologetically and replies, "Yes, you're right. Sorry."

Sherlock sets his tea aside and places his fingertips together pensively, thinking of what to ask. "How did _you _end up in London? No immediate family to return to?"

"Not really, no. Harry and I have never gotten along, and with the recent divorce with Clara I thought it better to stay out of their way." Sherlock nods.

"What was it like in Afghanistan? What exactly happened to you there?"

John's mouth tightened. "It was hot. And dry. I got shot and they sent me home. PTSD and all that."

Sherlock cocks his head.

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," he offers. "Between that and the limp, there wasn't much else I could do. So here I am." He gestures to the air.

"Interesting."

John interprets his reply as permission to ask another question. "So are there a lot of Borrowers in London?"

"Oh yes, there are quite a few running about. Most tend to keep together, but there are a few loners like me."

"And they're all scared of humans?"

Sherlock sighs. "Well, now it's less of a fear and more of just keeping out of their way. Some Borrowers still adhere to the misconception that humans are monsters, but more and more are realizing that they're not so bad. You just learn to stay out of their way and they don't cause any trouble."

John frowns. "So wait, you're telling me that there are tiny little people running around the streets of London and no one, not one person, has ever noticed?"

He smirks. "Part of it comes from knowing when it is safe to "run around", and the other comes from knowing how to hide in plain sight. Yes, we do occasionally get spotted, but people are so skeptical these days so there's not really anything to worry about."

"But I saw you."

"I told you, that's different."

"What about Mrs. Hudson? She's seen you, too."

Sherlock scowls. "The landlady—"

"Mrs. Hudson," John corrects.

"_Mrs. Hudson_ is borderline senile. If she told anyone about me, they wouldn't believe her." The tiny man leans back on his palms and closes his eyes. "Still, I rather like her. She tends to forget to put things away before going to bed. It's almost criminal borrowing from her."

John grins but holds his tongue, allowing Sherlock to continue deluding himself. After a moment, though, he asks once more,

"So why did you stay last night? Why not do what you always do and hide?"

Sherlock looks up, his piercing eyes meeting John's dark blue ones.

"Why does anyone do anything?"

The two sit in silence.

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><p>After tea, John goes about preparing supper while Sherlock observes him from the table, occasionally following him around. He admits that he's never been around a human this long before and that he doesn't know exactly how to act. John just smiles and tells him the feeling is mutual.<p>

The two flat mates – isn't that technically what they were? – share a somewhat awkward meal, mostly because of the size difference. And yet John finds it somewhat nice to share a meal with someone other than Mrs. Hudson for a change. They both continue to pester one another with questions, most of which concerning the other's lifestyles. John asks where Sherlock gets his clothes and utensils, while Sherlock demands to know why people keep cats as pets. He regards the usually lovable creatures with such contempt it makes John laugh. It might not be normal dinner conversation, but it's nice.

After a while Sherlock looks up and remarks, "You are a strange man, John Watson."

"What makes you say that?"

"You find a small man living in your flat and your first instinct is to invite him to tea and dinner." The larger man suppresses a grin. It did sound a bit absurd.

"Well, what can I say? This is honestly the first interesting thing that's happened to me in a long time."

"I concur. This is the only interesting thing ever to happen to me. It gets so unbelievably boring here."

"Hopefully you won't be bored anymore, not with me here to talk to."

There is the faintest tug of a smile on the smaller man's face. "Why _did_ you want to talk to me so badly?"

John ponders this for a moment, then replies,

"Why does anyone do anything?"

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><p>ReviewsQuestions/Comments are welcomed! I love to hear what people think about it so far, plus what they'd like to see in future chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

Good Lord this was long. It took a while to get out of a particular rut, but then I just couldn't stop writing. So yes, back on track then. Apologies for taking so long, but this week is finals so once it's over I can devote a lot more time to writing.

Repo is being worked on as well, it make take a few more days (or weeks more likely) but I haven't forgotten about it. And apparently no one liked Reoccurring Nightmares, but that's ok. I just wrote it as a refresher and it sounded more interesting in my mind. Thank you for bearing with me as I get my shit together. Mistakes are my own and I apologize for them. Enjoy~

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><p><strong>Chapter 4 - In which John takes up an interest in doll house furniture.<strong>

"Why don't you stop stealing things in the middle of the night and just ask for them?"

A few weeks had gone by and at last, after a considerable amount of coaxing, Sherlock was beginning to wander out of his dwelling without being invited by John. He would often observe his larger flat mate's endless typing on the computer or sit with him and watch whatever they could find on the television. However, the small man was still getting into the kitchen every night. He had at least stopped borrowing from Mrs. Hudson, but now he raided John's kitchen, which wasn't much better. The smaller man looks up from the book he is reading and gives him a quizzical look.

"I beg your pardon?"

John shrugs, not looking away from his laptop screen. "You know, you could just… ask me for things, or let me know if you need anything specific from the market. You don't have to keep running about every night like a burglar."

Sherlock looks at him as though he'd just suggested they both go running stark naked through the streets. "You really have no concept of borrowing, do you, John?"

"No, I get it, it's just—"

"No, you apparently don't get it." Sherlock stands up and folds his hands behind his back, regarding his companion. "By suggesting that I merely ask for things instead of borrowing them, you are asking me to put aside everything I have ever known and learned as a Borrower and as a person. From the time I was young, I've been taught to acquire thing for myself, by myself. I've never accepted any help or aid, especially from a human. I am a Borrower. That is who I am, John. It's not something you can easily change." He strides across the table and approaches the larger man. "It may seem like a simple request for you, but for me it is asking a bit too much. I don't do handouts."

John holds up his hands in defeat. "No, you're right. I'm sorry. It was too bold. Just forget it." He resumes his typing and Sherlock, with a thankful nod, returns to his reading.

After a moment of silence, save for the clacking of John's keyboard, the small man raises his head in hesitation.

"Though… you are almost out of tea biscuits."

John smiles but says nothing, reminding himself to add tea biscuits to the grocery list later.

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><p>As the weeks passed, the two unlikely roommates synched into a daily pattern. John would get up, go to work, and be greeted by Sherlock once he returned home. The two would then share afternoon tea and dinner, and sometimes watch television together before bidding each other good night. John found that as friends go, his companion was not very conventional, and not just because of his size. The smaller man often went days without talking to him, instead remaining isolated in his hole or simply staring intently out the window for hours. John was occasionally awoken by him rummaging around in the kitchen. As Sherlock had eventually stopped borrowing and had given in to leaving small notes for things instead, he was still a bit… nocturnal. More than once John heard the kitchen window being slid open and closed, once multiple times on the same night. He'd often wondered what his small flat mate was up to during the day when he wasn't around.<p>

One particular evening, John arrives home much later than he'd expected to. It was a full day at the clinic and he had forgotten to pick something up afterwards. He opens the door to find Sherlock pacing on the coffee table. The small man looks up and gives him a slightly irritated look.

"Finally. I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost. Where on earth have you been, John Watson?"

John sets down his bags and shrugs off his coat. "I was at my job. You know, the thing I do every day. To earn money. I don't live here for free like you do."

Sherlock scoffs. "It's no concern of mine what you do all day; it's when you return promptly. While you were gone, I have been bored out of my mind."

"Again, I have a job. What do _you _do all day, then? And for that matter, what did you do to keep occupied before I came along?"

"If you must know, I observe."

"Observe what, exactly?"

"Passersby. Customers in the café. Mrs. Hudson."

John smirks. "I never would have pegged you as a people watcher."

The small man wrinkles his brow. "I don't 'watch', I observe. How they act, how they greet people, what they're doing. I can tell if a man is cheating on his wife or if she is cheating on him. I can identify a person's home life simply by how they walk or the state of their clothes. I can sum up their life story in just one glance."

"And yet you had to rifle through my things in the middle of the night to know more about me."

Sherlock gives him an irritated look. "So what were you doing?"

Before John can formulate an answer, however, the smaller man starts up with his deduction.

"Let's see: you were late, which indicates either a night out at the pub or shopping for groceries. Since you are obviously quite sober, you were shopping."

"Sherlock-"

"But you went shopping yesterday, so not groceries. Self indulgence, perhaps, but you're not that kind of person. I've yet to see you buy anything frivolous; you wouldn't even buy yourself a phone, you had to accept your sis—"

John interrupts his ramblings by wordlessly reaching into the bag and setting a small object on the table. Sherlock trails off midsentence.

It is an armchair. A miniature one, to be exact, but with careful craftsmanship and attention to detail. The smaller man stares at the chair, an unreadable expression on his face.

"What is that?"

"It's a gift, if you'll accept it." John sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "Sorry if it's weird, but you never really have a place to sit when we have tea or talk so I thought you might like a chair of your own. I hope it's comfortable enough."

Sherlock says nothing as he approaches the small chair. It appears to suit his size fairly well. He runs a finger over the tiny details in the pattern. Then, after a moment, he sits down.

A sudden thought occurs to John.

"This is… okay, isn't it? I didn't mean it as anything offensive, I just—"

"I don't much care for the color." Sherlock looks up peculiarly at him, not smiling but not quite frowning. John knows that, after a few months of living with him, Sherlock Holmes is a very prideful person and not too quick to show vulnerability. But he hears the dual intention of the words and smiles, realizing that Sherlock is probably saying "thank you" in his own unusual way.

Probably.

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><p>A few days later, Sherlock had somehow convinced John to look up different hobby websites for more furniture. Since the smaller man seemed adamant on picking out his own furniture and they both felt equally nervous about discussing leaving the house, online shopping was the clearest option. The two look up numerous websites together, with Sherlock picking out certain things which he liked most and John checking up on details to make sure it was to proper scale. Although he tried not to show it, John could tell that Sherlock found this all very entertaining and perhaps a bit exciting in spite of himself. The larger man was glad for this; he didn't want it to feel like buying things for a pet or small child. They were housemates and Sherlock might as well have an equal share of furniture. He just hoped Sherlock saw it that way as well.<p>

In truth they only bought a few items. A small couch, coffee table and rug for the living room, a few pillows for the couch, a wooden table and chair for the kitchen, and a bookcase of all things. John wondered if he actually has books that small or perhaps he just wants it for decorative purposes, but he doesn't mention it to Sherlock.

The new furniture, once it arrives a week later, is set up on the living room table near the window. The table and chair is placed in the middle of John's own table in the kitchen. Sherlock arranges his things carefully and gives a satisfied nod once everything seems to be in suitable order.

"Looks pretty good," John comments. Though it now looks as though the doctor has a hobby of putting doll furniture around his home. But he rarely has company and Mrs. Hudson already knows about Sherlock. John made him stay put once so the older woman could get a proper look at him, which Sherlock did begrudgingly so. She was delighted to finally meet him and even made them all tea and biscuits.

"Is this alright?"

John pays his attention back to his small companion. His words mirror John's own the week before.

"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

But even he sounds unsure of himself. Sherlock paces on the table. It's the first time he's ever been visibly worried about something. For some reason it doesn't seem right.

"I've just… never accepted anyone's help before," the small man admits after a moment. "Even Mycroft's efforts to assist go largely ignored." He stares ahead, clearly uncomfortable about being so open with someone else. "I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you."

John smiles. "You're welcome."

"But don't think this makes me weak; I'm still cleverer than you."

"Right, of course," he agrees, chuckling softly. "So what made you decide to accept help from me of all people?"

Sherlock nestles himself on the edge of his new chair. He smirks devilishly, resting his head on his fingertips. "I haven't the slightest idea, really."

* * *

><p>"For the last time, Sherlock, there's nothing there!"<p>

John wonders to himself just how he was convinced to ransack his own flat in search of so-called "spy cameras" that Sherlock was convinced were hidden somewhere. He now stands on top of a wobbly chair, feeling about behind the books on his bookcase for wires or lenses or whatever might be hidden there. But the search remains futile and John is getting tired of knocking dust around.

"Keep looking," he hears from below. "Perhaps it's on the top shelf or something. I know he's hidden one around here somewhere."

"I've been looking for an hour. I'm telling you there's nothing hidden anywhere in the flat."

"Well, look harder!"

John is moving a rather heavy edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica out of the way when the chair suddenly shifts. He flails about before losing his balance and landing unceremoniously on the floor with a large thud. With a grimace, he sits up and rubs the back of his head. Sherlock merely tuts at him.

"You should be more careful, John," he states simply.

John is about to come back with a rather rude remark when he notices the encyclopedia teeter over the top shelf of the bookcase.

"Sherlock, look out!"

He reacts on instinct, quickly grabbing the small man and pulling him to his chest as the heavy book smacks the exact spot on the floor where Sherlock had been standing seconds before. A volume that size would've crushed the small man to death in an instant, John deduces. He breathes a sigh of relief before a tight, loud voice speaks up,

"John."

Sherlock's voice is articulately clear but not quite angry. John looks down at his hands, still grasping the small man. Sherlock is clinging to his thumb, a blush of red creeping over his face. He stares wide-eyed at the doctor.

"Put. Me. Down. Now."

A bit embarrassed himself, John quickly but carefully places his companion on the ground. Without a word Sherlock turns and quietly retreats to his hole in the wall. John watches him leave before rising to his feet to pick up the fallen objects.

Later that evening Sherlock returns for tea, but the two remain in awkward silence for the most part. Neither of them knows what to say to mend the situation. What was done was done in a split-second reaction, but it was a violation of personal space nevertheless. Finally Sherlock clears his throat and says very simply but sternly,

"Don't ever do that again."

And John agrees.

* * *

><p>ReviewsComments/Concerns are welcome~


	5. Chapter 5

I regret nothing. I got into a block and couldn't dig my way out til I rewatched Sherlock (and Thumbelina, coincidentally). Then I had no internet so I could finish this chapter but I couldn't post it. Ah well, hard part's over.

* * *

><p>"John."<p>

John looks to where Sherlock is perched on the countertop, still staring at the object that had been placed in front of him 10 minutes ago.

"Mm?"

"What is this?"

"It's a mobile phone," John replies as he rinses lettuce leaves in the sink.

Sherlock eyes it as if it might attack should he look away. "I know what it is, I meant what is it doing here? You've already got a phone; why would you buy a second one?"

John smirks. "You know, for a self-proclaimed genius, you're really thick sometimes." He dries his hands and turns to his companion. "I bought it for you. Since you yelled at me for not getting the right milk from the store because I couldn't find where you had written me a note—"

"It's not my fault if you can't see where I've put them—"

"—I decided to get you a phone so you can call me. Or text, since you apparently loathe talking at times."

Sherlock gives him an odd look, then looks back at the phone. John watches him struggle internally for a moment before he cautiously approaches the device. It's too heavy for him to tote around, obviously, but it could stay on Sherlock's table by the window. The smaller man regards it with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion.

"I was told never to interact with technology," he says at last. "It's a human thing and it's something we've never needed." He sounds so much like a child, reciting what mummy told him specifically not to do.

John frowns. "If it's too much, I can take it back. It's just… what if something were to happen and you needed my help? A note wouldn't suffice in an emergency." It made him sound desperate, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't concerned for the smaller man's safety. Ever since the book incident, he'd realized just how fragile his companion really was. And as nimble and smart the man claimed to be, John had seen him nearly take a tumble off the table at least once or twice.

Sherlock snaps his attention back to the larger man. "John, have you no faith in me at all? I've lived here far longer than you have and I've done perfectly fine by myself." The return of his overly confident demeanor makes John relax. "But since you are so concerned, I suppose I will keep the phone. For emergencies and what not."

A silence passes between them.

"Shall I show you how to use it, then-"

"If you insist."

* * *

><p>If ever there was anything John truly regretted doing in this world, it was giving that phone to Sherlock. After about a week and a half, the small man quickly realized the usefulness of the device and its main purpose became pestering John every five minutes:<p>

_Need more milk. Don't forget this time. SH_

_Remote is out of batteries. SH_

_There's a spill of sewing needles in the kitchen when you get home. Wasn't me. SH_

If there wasn't anything to report, John just received the same text over and over:

_Bored._

There wasn't much he could respond with, so John would simply try to start menial conversations until Sherlock inevitably insulted his intelligence level and would presumably run off to entertain himself, which allowed the doctor to return to his equally boring job. The job was mundane compared to his days as a soldier, but it paid well enough and gave him something to do.

One day, however, John was blessedly free of his flat mate's nonstop texts until after lunch. The text was unlike any of the others, probably because Sherlock had left off his signature. Why he used one when the only person he communicated with was John puzzled the man, but John thought it best not to get into it.

_Come home at once if convenient. _

_I'M AT WORK, _John texts back. A few minutes pass, then:

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

The ex-soldier sighs. He doesn't really have time for Sherlock's peculiar means of communicating. Honestly, the smaller man could be so elusive at times. His phone chirps again and John considers tossing it out the window before he reads:

_I need your assistance._

His blood runs cold and he excuses himself for the day, hurrying home without delay. When he arrives, he is startled to find that… Sherlock is lounging about lazily in his chair, his foot pressing the channel change button at a steady rhythm. He looks up at John, who is out of breath from running up the steps.

"Ah, good, you got my text. Fetch me that piece of paper, would you?" He points to a post-it note stuck to the coffee table, well within Sherlock's limits of climbing. John stares at the paper, then back at his companion.

"You… you called me home to hand you a piece of paper?"

"Yes. I need it."

"I was working, Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't even take his eyes off the television screen. "And now you're home, so you might as well get it for me." He sighed bitterly. "There's nothing on this time of day."

Holding back an innumerable amount of swears, John grabs the note angrily and walks over to hand it to Sherlock. It was then that he notices something – someone – outside of the window. A very small someone.

"Sherlock, what— who is that?"

The smaller man turns to look. "Oh, you've noticed her too. Yes, well, she's been here over an hour already." He turns his attention back to the television. "Just ignore her, she'll have to leave eventually."

John does just the opposite and gets closer for a better look. The tiny woman stands on the window sill, one hand clutching a small envelope and the other knocking repeatedly on the glass. She wears a tiny black suit, her dark brown hair falling to her shoulders. John imagines she must have great patience to have stood here for so long.

She gives him a curious look, but relaxes when he carefully opens the window for her. With a smile, the woman holds out the envelope. Stunned, he takes it gingerly from her small hands.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," she says, giving Sherlock an irritated look. "Mycroft sends his regards." With that, she hurries off and disappears off to the side of the building.

John simply stares for a moment before turning to Sherlock. "Who was that?"

"Flavor of the week," he tuts, glaring at the television set. John doesn't really understand what he means, so he instead turns to the small note in his hands. With precision he opens the tiny envelope and pulls out the small scrap of paper inside. The print is very small but he can just barely make it out:

_Sherlock,_

_I have held my tongue at your ever growing desire to rebel. I did not complain when you left home nor did I try to stop you. I had hoped you would eventually see the error of your ways and return to us, but due to the recent developments of your relationship with Dr. Watson, I can see that you have no intention of giving up your stubborn ways. However, I must protest that you have gone too far, shall we say, with accepting the help of a human for this long and to this degree. If you do not do something about the situation at hand, make no mistakes that I certainly will. Believe it or not, I do care about you and I sincerely wish that you will come to your senses._

_Warmest regards,_

_Mycroft_

"This Mycroft fellow… is he threatening you?"

Sherlock doesn't turn away from the screen. "He likes to sounds tough, so it would seem. I theorize that he has a god complex of sorts to make up for his height."

John looks at the letter again. "At least he threatens politely, at any rate. He sends his regards."

The smaller man gives him a fractious look. "I couldn't care less about that man's 'regards', John. He can stuff those regards right up his—"

"Alright, never mind then." He looks at the note again. "I meant that, well… he seems concerned about you."

Sherlock shrugs. "Yes. He is indeed concerned, and he has every right to be given our past together, but it really isn't his place to tell me what to do anymore." Growing bored with the current program, he goes back to changing the channels with his foot. "Irritating fool."

John wants to say more but feels it isn't his place. With a sigh, he resigns himself to brewing a cup of tea and settling down to join Sherlock in his quest to find a suitable station for viewing.

* * *

><p>The ex-soldier began to notice that his small companion seemed to be getting more and more anxious ever since he had received the letter from Mycroft. He knew Sherlock was trying to hide it, but something about the note had perhaps upset him in some way. The man poured himself over his books and notes, muttering to himself during the night and refusing to talk during the day. It was as if this Mycroft person had struck a nerve and Sherlock was fighting with the urge to prove himself.<p>

It happened when they were watching television late one evening. The science program that honestly neither of them was enjoying was suddenly interrupted by a news report. The reporter onscreen narrates that a young woman of rather rich upbringing had been murdered in her own home. The detective-inspector on the case, an older fellow named Lestrade, explains the mysterious details surrounding her death, which was reported as asphyxiation while she was sleeping. No word was given as to who the murderer might have been or why they did it. The news report flashes between reporters and images of the crime scene, including the bed where she had been found, when Sherlock jumps up suddenly and runs to the edge of the table. He swiftly climbs down the leg and approaches the TV.

"What's wrong?" John asks.

Sherlock points at the television set. "You didn't see?"

"See what?"

He stares at the screen as the image of her bedroom flashes up again. "There! Right there, on the bed. You don't see it?"

"See _what,_ Sherlock?" the other man urges, failing to notice whatever it is his companion has picked up on.

"Evidence, John." Sherlock turns to the screen. "They need to question their gardener and check his right front pocket for whatever's been stolen; possibly a ring or necklace. He couldn't have gotten far with a sprained left ankle. Call the police or something, they need to know."

John stares dumbfounded at the small, confident man. "You got all that from a glance at her room?"

Sherlock gives him a withered look. "Yes, I did, now call the police. They're obviously too incompetent to noticed the finer details."

"Sherlock, you can't— you can't just phone the police and tell them you know who the murderer is because you're smart and you notice miniscule details while watching the evening news."

"And why can't I do just that?" he asks lividly.

"Because that's not how it works." John gets up and turns off the television, worrying that the program might be too much for his flat mate right now. "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock mulls over this revelation for a moment before excusing himself for the evening. John doesn't see him the next morning before he leaves for work. He feels a bit guilty for sounding so strict, but Sherlock didn't seem to understand the concept of crime scene investigation and how the police carry out their jobs.

When he returns home that evening, however, John finds the small man in the kitchen on John's laptop.

"What are you doing?" he asks immediately. "How did you get on my laptop? That's not a toy!"

"Ah, John. Good, I need you to come see how this looks." Sherlock looks pleased with himself as John approaches. The taller man looks at the screen at an unfamiliar website: The Science of Deduction.

"Er, what am I looking at?"

Sherlock turns to him, a gleam in his eye. "Your words last night. You said the police don't consult amateurs, so after perusing the internet and various forums, I've created my own website. It took a while, what with getting the lid open by myself, but I'm finally done. I can't wait to get it up and running."

"And what exactly is it a website for?"

"Deduction, John. Exactly what it says." He extends an arm out, gesturing to the screen in a grandiose manner. "I am now Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective."


End file.
